


The Inquisition, Indiana Holiday Special

by Paperclippe



Series: Inquisition, Indiana [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Original, Angst and Humor, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Shopping, Christmas Tree, F/M, First Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Holidays, Humor, Love, Major Original Character(s), Modern Era, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Trespasser DLC Compliant, Original Character(s), Original Universe, POV Original Character, Silly, Snow, Snow and Ice, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperclippe/pseuds/Paperclippe
Summary: It's the holiday season on Eleanor's Indiana farm, and between the snow, the Blight, and holiday shoppers, she isn't having any of it. But with Cullen, Dorian, and Varric there, will Eleanor find a little holiday cheer?





	1. Holly Jolly

**Author's Note:**

> If you have read Inquisition, Indiana, this takes place after Eleanor & Co. have come back from Thedas but before the final push for soldiers and Wardens to end the Blight in Indiana. 
> 
> When exactly? The hell if I know. It's a Christmas special. It doesn't matter.
> 
> If you haven't read Inquisition, Indiana, go back and start there. We'll try not to get too far ahead before you get back.

Eleanor rubbed her eyes and stared out at the snow, tinted blue in the early dawn light. The last thing she wanted to do today was go to the store - any store - but she had hungry troops to feed and her errands wouldn’t run themselves. But between the snow and the cold and the madness she knew she was about to face on the roads and in the aisles, Eleanor’s back hunched more and more by the minute, even her posture unwilling and unmotivated. She clutched her coffee tighter and pulled her gaze away from the window in the kitchen’s back door. 

“Mm, good morning,” Cullen’s voice came from the doorway. He was drying his hair, still wet from the shower, rubbing his head vigorously with a towel. Little drops sprung free and flicked themselves toward Eleanor, splashing her gently on the cheek. On another morning, she might have laughed, but on this morning, Eleanor didn’t even turn her head, only turned her eyes dully toward Cullen, lifting one eyebrow as if asking, “Really?”

Cullen slowed the motion of his arm and gave her an apologetic little smile, flinging the towel over the back of the chair where he then sat. His hair stood up at all angles, the curls doing their best to in no way form a cohesive unit. He leaned on his left elbow, jaw resting on his knuckles, and asked, “Something wrong?”

“I have to go shopping,” Eleanor muttered into her cup.

Cullen’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, that’s…” 

Eleanor sighed and stood, walking to the coffee maker to refill her mug and fetch Cullen one of his own. “It’s…” she started to say, but instead said, “You’re coming with me.”

“Of course,” he said, eagerly accepting the cup. Eleanor sat back down in her chair, facing the commander who still had an air of bafflement about him, but also an air of ease. Eleanor sat down her cup and rubbed her face, then reached out to adjust the hood on Cullen’s red sweatshirt - his second one, the first having been lost to the darkspawn - and let her arms stay around his neck when she was finished. 

His hands in his lap, cradling his mug, Cullen carefully bent forward and kissed Eleanor. “Is everything alright?”

After a moment, Eleanor nodded, because truthfully, it was. Holiday crowds and traffic and weather weren’t awesome, not at all, but she could get - was getting - an early start on the day, and she could use Cullen’s size, if nothing else, to cut a path through the store if the aisles were too jammed. Indeed, the visual of him plowing through holiday shoppers the way he plowed through darkspawn made Eleanor smile a reluctant smile, and she gently bumped her forehead against Cullen’s, some of the tension she had felt dispersing. 

“Lemme take us out for breakfast,” she offered. “Dorian and Varric can fend for themselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! A special present for you! It's Christmas in July!
> 
> But wait, Paperclippe - isn't it June? Aren't you Jewish? Didn't you finish Inquisition, Indiana two years ago?
> 
> The answer to all of your questions is: yes.
> 
> But.
> 
> My beta suggested this to me as she was finishing up reading Inquisition, Indiana, and I always thought that it was a really good idea. I thought I might do it for this past holiday season, but the time got away from me, as time does. And since time frequently gets away from me (as well as the fact that I'm still actively writing Once More unto the Breach, which is being posted - unrevised - on fanfiction dot net, and that I'm posting to the Dragon Age parody twitter - @sfmstories, and I'm sort of slowly working on Dragon Age: AD), I figure this won't be finished until July, and then it'll be like a Christmas in July! Even though I don't celebrate Christmas!
> 
> So, yeah, this is just gonna be some fluff but I thought we could all use some fluff right now.
> 
> HO HO HO HAPPY FLAG DAY


	2. All the Surrounding White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snow, thankfully, seemed to have been cleared during the night, and no more was falling at the moment, though the grey sky overhead threatened more at any moment, but it was nevertheless holding off.

At just a little past eight in the morning, the highways were mostly clear. It was a Thursday, and Eleanor realized that this was probably a point in her favor; though it was just a week before Christmas, she supposed that mostly everyone still had to go to work. And Hanukkah probably wasn’t going to have much of an impact on travel. The snow, thankfully, seemed to have been cleared during the night, and no more was falling at the moment, though the grey sky overhead threatened more at any moment, but it was nevertheless holding off. 

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all, Eleanor thought. The hardest thing she’d had to do so far this morning was find a station that wasn’t playing twenty-four seven Christmas jingles. It wasn’t so much that she minded the music, it was only that she could only hear so many versions of “Silent Night” before she wanted to strangle the baby Jesus. She did manage to find a college radio station out of Terre Haute that was playing 90s alternative rock, and Eleanor decided that listening to the same shit she’d listened to in high school was still better than “White Christmas” done by anyone other than Bing Crosby, and though the signal went in and out every now and again, she let the station play. A few times she even caught herself humming along. Cullen didn’t seem to notice her frantic station switching, only gazed out the window at the snowy fields, once full of corn and soybeans, now flat except for the occasional small dune where the wind had blown the snow into little curved mounds. Everything was white.

They got snow in Ferelden, especially as far south and as deep into the mountains as Honnleath, but it didn’t look like this. There were so many hills and valleys, so much uneven geography, that the huge plain of white that passed Cullen by was like nothing he’d ever seen. Just endless flat white, punctuated every now and again by the black figure of a bare tree reaching up toward the equally white sky. There were so many things the same here as there were in Ferelden, and still, some things were just so different.

There was a break in the music when the radio station became garbled either because of weather or distance, and Eleanor leaned forward slightly to read a road sign, her hands gripping the steering wheel. 

“I feel like waffles,” she said, and merged into the right lane. “Let’s get us some waffles, huh?”

Cullen turned away from the window and saw Eleanor give him a mock-conspiratorial wink, her eyes a bright grey-blue against all the surrounding white.


	3. Full of Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are these trees,” Cullen said slowly, abandoning the cart and walking up to the display, “full of lights?”
> 
> “They’re plastic, Cullen, they’re not real trees.”

Belly full of eggs and waffles, Cullen pushed the shopping cart serenely behind Eleanor, dutifully reaching for higher shelves when he was asked. Eleanor was glad that the commander had a mind to do a bit of his own decision making at this point, instead of having to ask him over and over again if he would need, or if he would like. In fact, as Cullen reached down to a low shelf and put an economy-sized box of Pop-Tarts into the basket, Eleanor was caught between a laugh and glare. 

“What?” he asked innocently, though his frozen motion said that he was caught red-handed.

“I make you breakfast every morning!”

“I like them!” he insisted, but slowly started to pull them back out of the basket.

“Oh, go on then,” she said, coming around the side of the cart, unable to do anything but give him a little squeeze.

They exited the cavernous aisle and into the path of a massive display of artificial Christmas trees, their fiber optic lights flickering brightly even under the glare of the fluorescents overhead.

Cullen paused and turned his head to the side, standing still even as Eleanor, unfazed, continued walking. She was a few yards ahead before she realized her cart - and her partner - were no longer with her. Turning around, she put her hands on her hips. 

“Cul, come on, we still have to get freezer stuff.”

“Are these trees,” Cullen said slowly, abandoning the cart and walking up to the display, “full of lights?”

“They’re plastic, Cullen, they’re not real trees.”

He reached out and rubbed the white needles of an artificially-snowy Douglas fir between his fingers and thumb. “But… why?” he asked her.

“It’s for Christmas, it’s stupid,” she said, grabbing him by the wrist.

“That’s, ah - it’s a holiday?”

“Mhm,” she answered, folding her arms across her chest. 

“Do you… are we… celebrating this?”

“Nah, no. We have other things to worry about, right?” she said, not adding that she hadn’t been moved to celebrate Christmas since her father had died, and even then it had been more of a time out, a quiet day with cocoa, than any real sort of celebration, religious or otherwise. The Redgroves had always been a secular sort. 

“No, but,” Cullen said, his hand still on the tree, but Eleanor now had to drag him away.

“Come on, babe, we’re taking up space.” 

The commander swiveled his head around and took note of the few other shoppers who wanted to be where he was, so he followed Eleanor a few feet, and asked, “But what is the tree for?”

“To put presents under,” Eleanor answered, heading for a freezer door.

“Who are the presents for?” 

“I dunno, friends, family, people you love,” then under her breath mumbled something about people she didn’t want to be bothered buying presents for.

Cullen paid her mumbling no heed, instead asking, “Shall I get you a present?”

Eleanor stopped, her hand on the freezer door handle, then let it drop.

“Have I said something wrong?” he asked.

Eleanor pressed her lips together in an irrepressible little smile, and walked to him, putting her hand on his arm. “You don’t have to get me a damn thing,” she said softly, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “We don’t have a tree to put presents under,” she added.

He turned his head back the way they had come and asked, “Should we get a tree? I like the white one.”

“No, Cullen.”


	4. Home for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What about your parents?” she asked in a moment of realization.

It was hard work loading and unloading the car, especially in the winter. Eleanor had backed up to the barn, the tires of the car leaving tracks in the snow, underneath which there was a path somewhere but which wouldn’t show itself again until March. The soldiers helped, forming a sort of fire brigade to pass all of their dry goods into the renovated space, those on the end setting to work stocking the cupboards in the little kitchen area and filling the chest freezer. When the goods had been divested, Eleanor did a lap of the space, making sure every bed had clean, warm bedding and that none of the slats overheat were drafty or leaky - which they never were; Eleanor’s father had done good work turning the old, rickety barn into livable space for the farm hands not all that long ago, and the maintenance Eleanor kept up with every summer made sure the structure remained in good condition. As a bonus, she now more than knew her way around a roof. But the soldiers insisted all was well, that they’d had much worse, and soon, Eleanor was in the kitchen, filling her own fridge with all the edibles and potables that she and Cullen had brought home. 

She was just reaching up to close the last cabinet when she turned around and saw a box of hot cocoa mix on the table, somehow having escaped her notice until now. She’d thrown it in the cart without really thinking about it and Cullen, now in the dining room going over the latest reports from Skyhold, had unpacked most of the boxes and bags, and Eleanor had forgotten all about the drink mix until this moment.

Climbing up on a chair, Eleanor reached to open the cabinet above the sink, but as she lifted the box, she caught a scent of the chocolate powder as it shifted, and it made Eleanor pause.

She’d bought the mix on a whim, having always associated hot cocoa with the holidays, and after Cullen had gone all soft over the tree, she’d pulled the box off of an end cap and thrown it into the cart along with the industrial quantities of eggs, bread, and a million other things. 

But now that it was here in her hands, now that she smelled that sweet smell, Eleanor stopped in place, one hand still reaching up to the cabinet, the other holding the box of chocolate. She looked down at it, at the blue packaging, and let the arm that was reaching up slowly drop, leaving the cupboard door open. 

She rolled her lips as she slowly stepped back down to the floor, not taking her eyes off box. Eleanor let herself sit down in the chair, her back to the sink. Holding the box in both hands like a book, she let her head hang a bit as her vision misted over. She sniffed.

Cullen had had his head down over the giant map that had replaced the tablecloth on the dining room table for some months now, but he stopped and looked up and through the doorway, where he could see Eleanor sitting forlornly in a misplaced chair, hair falling free from her ponytail and around her eyes which hid whether or not she might be crying. Her posture gave him no reassurance that he was not. 

He stood up and walked softly into the kitchen, lowering himself down to the level in which she sat in the chair, knees bent, balancing on tiptoe. He peered down at the box, then up at her.

“Did it say something to upset you?” he asked, tone sincere in spite of his joke.

Eleanor didn’t look up, but her shoulders shuddered in a little laugh. “It told me I smell.”

“You do smell,” he answered.

With a louder chuckle, she elbowed him in the shoulder and he wobbled, reaching out and grabbing on to her arm to steady himself. She wiggled the limb back and forth, threatening to cause him to fall.

“You’re awful,” she said as he steadied himself, but Cullen only smiled, standing up to put an arm over her shoulders. 

Eleanor raised up the box a bit and one hand and slapped it into the palm of the other, answering the question he hadn’t needed to ask. “I dunno, just… we always used to drink hot cocoa this time of year, and…” She looked up at him with a sad smile, pressing the top of her head against his ribs.

“You and your father?”

Eleanor nodded. “And Mom, I guess, but I don’t remember much.” 

He bent down and kissed her hair, and a silence passed between them.

“What about your parents?” she asked in a moment of realization.

“What about them?”

“You told me about your siblings, but not…” her voice trailed off as she watched his face darken. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking away, knowing the implication of his expression without him having to speak.

“It’s alright,” he answered, and told her.


	5. All Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He paused, and looked away. There was something of a shameful look on his face. Eleanor reached out and squeezed his hand.
> 
> “My brothers and sisters all made it to South Reach; Mia still lives there. My parents just… didn’t.” He took a deep breath. “That’s all there is to tell, really.”

“I wasn’t there, when they died. I should have been… I was at the tower, Kinloch Hold. I had just taken my final vows the year prior and I was eager to prove myself. I was also, incidentally, almost entirely safe from the Blight that took them.”

He paused, and looked away. There was something of a shameful look on his face. Eleanor reached out and squeezed his hand.

“My brothers and sisters all made it to South Reach; Mia still lives there. My parents just… didn’t.” He took a deep breath. “That’s all there is to tell, really.”

Cullen pulled away from Eleanor and reached for a chair of his own, sliding it away from the table and turning it to face her. Eleanor held the box of hot cocoa in one hand and reached out for Cullen’s knee with the other. He put his hand on top of hers and ran the other through his hair, looking away, out of the window in the kitchen door, onto the snowy white backyard. It was late afternoon, getting on for evening, and the snow was stained a sherbet pink and orange as the afternoon dimmed. 

Eleanor didn’t have an answer; despite knowing the kind of loss that Cullen must feel, what could she possibly say to him? Aside from the fact that they were both a decade or more removed, Eleanor thought it almost trite to say that she understood what she had gone through - of course she did, and of course she never could. Instead, she turned her hand over beneath his and held on to his wrist, pulling herself up out of the chair to reach out and embrace him, the hand that held the cocoa box behind his back. 

“Come on,” she said after a moment. “I’m gonna make you a cup of hot chocolate.”

* * *

“We have something like this,” Cullen said, taking a sip of the cocoa. “But not… these.” He lifted up one mini marshmallow from the bag on the table and gave it a squish between his fingers.

“The wonders of food science. Marshmallows are my favorite food,” Eleanor said, but it came out muffled for all the marshmallows that were already in her mouth.

“I thought cheese was your favorite food.”

“It is.”

Cullen was quiet as he processed this.

“All food is my favorite food,” said Eleanor, wolfing another fistful of marshmallows. “My favorite favorite is whatever is in front of me at the time.”

“Ah.”

“Life is short, Cullen. Eat marshmallows.”

“Sage advice,” he said with a smile, dropping one of the fluffed white confections into his drink. He took a long drink this time and then rested his elbows on the table, the cup held between his hands. “Your father was a wise man,” he said.

“That he was,” Eleanor agreed.

“Should we tell Varric and Dorian there’s some for them?”

Eleanor paused, brushing her leg against Cullen’s under the table. “Maybe in a minute.” She picked up a marshmallow and closed one eye. Lifting her arm, she pinched the sweet between her fingers, and, after a moment’s calibration, tossed the marshmallow, which landed with a tiny splash in Cullen’s cup.

He lowered his arms and lifted an eyebrow at her.

“Two points!” Eleanor shouted, lifting her own cup and her empty hand high into the air.

“Two…”

“Basketball. It’s a sport. A bunch of people try to put an orange ball in a tall hoop. Two points for a basket. If I were way over by the sink that would totally be three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY SEVEN YEARS OF DRAGON AGE II.
> 
> To celebrate how old I feel, I'm gonna post a chapter of every single project I'm working on and then hopefully I'm gonna write some more. Was in a big writing mood this morning. Let's see if that carries over. I'm full of Diet Coke and ramen and righteousness, so the forecast is good.
> 
> This is gonna be my main priority for a hot minute so hopefully I can get it done by the end of July. I'm sure if I just sat down with it over tonight and tomorrow it could be done, but my attention span is amazing only in its brevity most days.


	6. A Sadness, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s on your mind, Farm Girl?” Varric asked, looking up from his scribbling.

Varric, still scribbling furiously in what was now a mostly-full spiral notebook, had pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and was hunched over it as he continued to write. Every once in awhile, Eleanor, her own book resting in her lap, would lean over and try to get a peek at what the dwarf was writing, but even during the moments when Varric’s large hands weren’t completely covering all of the paper but for the line he was writing on, she couldn’t make out a single one of the hash-like notations anyway.

Dorian was stretched out in the arm chair. He had put away all his speculative books about the nature of the Veil and the Rift and the Fade and the thousand other things that Eleanor could still only half wrap her mind around. What he was reading now seemed to be a much more casual sort of thing. Indeed, as the snow fell, everyone seemed a little more relaxed; the fluffy white quietude having infiltrated every part of the house. 

It was strange; Eleanor knew it in her mind that they were closer than ever to the end, whatever end that might be, but for  just this little while, all of that had drained out of her. Outside it was quiet. Inside it was calm. The final push, the final charge could come at any moment, but until it did, or until they received more news from Thedas, from Skyhold, a sort of unfamiliar but welcome ease had sunk into her bones. 

But there was a sadness, too. A sadness for the loss of her father, and her mother, though that sadness was a little more dim. A sadness for Cullen, who had lost the same. Eleanor put her index finger in her book to mark the page and looked around at her other two comrades. Neither Varric nor Dorian had so much as mentioned their families. Neither of them seemed in a hurry to get back. She pressed her lips thin. She didn’t want to ask - couldn’t ask, not really; how did you start that conversation? But she sensed a kind of similarity there, between the four of them, and none were exactly worse for it, not that she could see - and maybe she was wrong - but they all seemed a little separate. A little lonely. 

“What’s on your mind, Farm Girl?” Varric asked, looking up from his scribbling. 

But before she could answer, Cullen came back in, his strong hands loaded down with mugs. Refills for Cullen himself and Eleanor, and fresh cups for Varric and Dorian. Cullen passed the mugs around and pulled over the ottoman, placing it next to the arm of the couch where Eleanor was resting her elbow. He sat down on it, knees wide, and rested his shoulder, his head on the side of the sofa near Eleanor’s arm. She unbent her elbow and reached her arm around him, letting her fingers play gently with the curls of his hair as she flipped her book open again. But instead of reading, she said, “It’s nice to have people in the house.” And it was.


	7. Festive as Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, I liked the lights,” Dorian said.
> 
> “And I was told there’d be cake,” Varric said, leaning his hip against the coffee table.

Eleanor woke up the next morning with a plan.

Cullen was still sleeping - and should have been; the sky was still dark, the house was still quiet. There was no reason he should be awake. There was no reason she should have been awake, but in her sleep her mind had been turning, must have been turning, because when Eleanor awoke, she was ready to act. 

Gently, carefully, she lifted Cullen’s arm from around her waist and slid out of bed. She could just see enough to pull a sweater and jeans and underthings from her dresser, and she took them into the bathroom to quickly and quietly get dressed. 

She padded back through the bedroom, and when she pushed open the door, Swiffer darted in and swerved around her legs. Eleanor put a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” she said, ushering the cat back out into the hallway and closing the door behind them. “We’re on a secret mission.” As though Swiffer understood, she hunkered down low in the dark hall and padded stealthily into the kitchen. Eleanor followed quietly behind.

She fed Swiffer and thought about leaving a note for Cullen, but then realized he wouldn’t be able to read the language she would write and she wouldn’t be able to write the language he could read, so instead she started the coffee maker, figuring that that was as good a sign as any that she hadn’t left under duress, and headed for the front door. She pulled on her boots and her coat and, shaking her hair down around her ears, Eleanor quietly left the house. 

 

Eleanor was glad she had gone out as early as she had: even darting into the store to pick up the few items that she needed, she ran into far too many people for her liking, but she was duly thankful for 24 hour commerce. When she left the store, the sky was just getting light. She had plenty of time.

* * *

Cullen awoke to a sweet smell and an empty bed. He sat up slowly and looked around, listened, but didn’t hear Eleanor in the bathroom. What he heard was laughter, and it sounded like it was coming from the kitchen.

He swung his legs over the bed and pulled on his flannel pajama pants, the hardwood floor cold on his feet despite the warmth of the house, and he padded slowly to the dresser to find a clean t-shirt, stretching the sleep and the chill from his muscles as he walked the short distance to the drawers. 

There was a sound from the living room now, a sort of heavy scraping, and as he pulled a grey shirt over his head he opened the bedroom door and looked out across the hallway, the sweet smell from the kitchen was now almost intoxicating. 

“What’s all this, now?” he said sleepily. Dorian was tugging on one arm of the sofa, drawing it back and away from the spot where it normally sat, and Eleanor had her hands on the other, guiding the furniture carefully toward the armchair, but not so close as to render it unusable. Varric followed behind, pushing the coffee table along. Draped across the mantle of the sealed-up fireplace were tiny twinkling colored lights, and hanging from little hooks were over-sized socks, one for each of them, including Swiffer, their names written across the cuffs in glitter.

“So I’ve decided we’re gonna be festive as fuck,” Eleanor said, standing from where she had hunched over the arm of the sofa and stretching out her back, “because I’m not sure if or when we’re gonna get to do this again.”

“And she’s roped you lot into service, I see,” Cullen said, propping himself in the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, hair still unruly from sleep.

“Well, I liked the lights,” Dorian said.

“And I was told there’d be cake,” Varric said, leaning his hip against the coffee table.

“And there shall!” Eleanor said triumphantly.

“Is that what I smell?” Cullen asked, as Eleanor went to him, slipping her hands around his neck and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“It is. And good morning.”

“Good morning,” he said with a little smile, and turned to kiss her on the lips.

“A room: get one,” Dorian suggested. 

“But if you’re just baking cake,” Cullen asked, ignoring Pavus, “why are you moving furniture?”

Eleanor smiled and nudged him in the chin gently with her fist. “Oh, dude. I never said I was just baking cake.”


	8. Far from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eleanor,” he asked, as they came upon rows and rows of neatly arranged coniferous trees, “what is this place?”

They were in a place that reminded Cullen more of Ferelden in winter than he expected anywhere on this side of the Breach to be able to do. Aside from their one brief journey through the Hinterlands to Skyhold, Cullen had been looking at flat landscape for months now. But here, wherever they were, wherever they were heading, looked like home.

All around him were hills, covered heavily in snow, frost hanging thick from the trees. Eleanor had the heater blasting in the truck, but even the little crack that she had the window open to vent the smoke from her cigarette let in occasional blasts of vicious air when the wind picked up, when the tree branches shivered. The sky above was steely grey, more storms threatening, but so far holding off. 

He had tried to rest his hand on top of hers while she shifted gears, his normal resting posture in the truck, but the hills here were steep, and occasionally the truck’s wheels would spin but move them no further. Eleanor, however, was more than skilled at operating the vehicle and shifted fiercely from this gear to that, her cigarette clamped resolutely in her lips. Wearing her black and red flannel, her hair tied back loosely, twisted into a knot, she looked like she could handle anything the weather could throw at her. Her sternness, her determination made him smile from the passenger seat, even if he still had no idea where they were going, but wherever it was, he liked it.

They passed a little sign on the side of sloping road, but even if Cullen could have read the words, the text was obscured by clinging snow. 

“Eleanor,” he asked, as they came upon rows and rows of neatly arranged coniferous trees, “what is this place?”

“We’re gonna get you a tree, Cul.”

* * *

Eleanor hugged her flannel tight against her body and Cullen kept one hand on her back as they approached a small shack near where she had parked the truck. She gave a little knock on a sliding window. An older woman in a thick grey sweater opened the glass and peered out at them, a smile on her face. She ran a hand over her greying hair and said, “You folks are cuttin’ it a bit close, ain’tcha?”

“Is that… that’s a pun,” Eleanor said, pulling her flannel closer.

The woman paused. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she laughed. “What can I help you folks with?”

“Well, a tree,” Eleanor said.

“Figured s’much,” said the woman, gesturing to the rows of pines behind them. “Anything particular?”

“I’m not… sure. It’s our first Christmas. I haven’t done this in a while. Or… at all. My dad always took care of it,” she confessed, and looked behind her to Cullen who gave her back a little rub.

“Far from home?”

Eleanor shook her head, then amended, “Well, he is,” and thumbed over her shoulder with a little laugh. Cullen smiled.

“Well, how much space ya got?” the woman inquired.

“Mm, maybe…” Eleanor spread her arms out, trying to picture her living room with the furniture moved, “ten feet around? Ten feet high?” She put her hands quickly back into her pockets.

“That’s a good size,” the woman said, indicating toward a door. “Here; not much left so close to Christmas, but let’s see what we can’t rustle up.”


	9. Where He's From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was peaceful.” He tipped his chin down to kiss her forehead.
> 
> “In what was is our house not peaceful? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
> 
> “It’s full of delinquents.”

They walked through a few rows of trees, the snow crunching under their feet in some places, swishing softly in others, until the proprietor took them to a thinned-out spot where Cullen and Eleanor might find some trees that fit. Eleanor surveyed the scene, then nudged Cullen and said, “Well, go ‘head, babe. We’re here for you.”

“What, so, I just… choose one?”

“Well, strictly speaking, you’re gonna be the one who hacks it down and carries it back to the truck as well, but, yeah. Whichever one you like.”

“How do I…”

The proprietor looked slightly baffled.

“Just pick a pretty one, handsome.” Eleanor told the proprietor and said, “Yeah… they don’t do this where he’s from.”

“Ferelden,” Cullen answered before Eleanor could stop him.

“That in… Britain?” The proprietor took a stab.

“Y -” Eleanor started, but Cullen had already said, “No,” as he absently walked up to a tree and inspected it.

“Technically it’s the UK,” Eleanor reassured the proprietor, and the woman folded her arms and nodded sagely.

“This one’s nice,” Cullen said from a dozen feet away, leaning down from his waist and looking into the branches of the tree, then stretching back to inspect the top.

“Me see?” Eleanor said, approaching him, anxious to get away from any further questions from the proprietor of the tree farm.

“It looks… soft,” Cullen said, taking one hand out of the pockets of his grey pea coat to rub the needles of the tree, then putting his arm around her.

“Yeah, yeah it does,” she said, brushing some snow off of a few of the branches.

“Colorado blue spruce. Nice and symmetrical,” the proprietor offered.

“Yeah,” Eleanor agreed again, and it was. In fact, the more she looked at it, the less she could believe it was still here, three days before Christmas. The tree wasn’t so much as blue as almost a soft grey in color, a smoky teal green, and it did look almost soft to touch. It was just slightly taller than Cullen and was filled out nicely, but not so full, not so broad, that she had to worry that it wouldn’t fit between the wall and the coffee table, which couldn’t be scootched back too terribly much further. “Alright, yeah, we’ll take it.”

* * *

The proprietor walked back to her little cabin to get a saw and some bailing twine, and Eleanor and Cullen stood in front of the tree. Cullen had wrapped his arm around her waist so that his hand fit in Eleanor’s pocket, his fingers laced between hers, his chin resting on the top of her head.

“This reminds me of home,” he said quietly.

“Mm,” she agreed. “I thought that as we were driving out here. It looked like when we were lost, walking all that way…”

“It was peaceful.” He tipped his chin down to kiss her forehead.

“In what was is our house not peaceful? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s full of delinquents.”  She laughed, and he nuzzled gently against her temple, before pausing. “Wait, now." He asked, " _ Our _ house?”

Eleanor sputtered, “I mean -” but the proprietor was walking back towards them with supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That UK joke is the worst and it's not even strictly accurate and it still makes me laugh every time I read it.


	10. What's the Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah,” Eleanor said, catching herself in an awkward smile. “You done this before, babe?”
> 
> “Oh, once or twice,” he said easily.

Money changed hands and the proprietor handed over the saw to Eleanor.

“You folks gonna need help with that?” she asked, as Eleanor passed the saw to Cullen.

“Shouldn’t think so; he’s stronger than he looks.”

Cullen had set the saw in the snow for a moment to more easily pull off his peacoat and pass it to Eleanor as so not to get the jacket mussed up while felling the three. In his waffled flannel shirt, he gave  his muscles a stretch to warm up.

“He looks pretty strong,” the proprietor commented.

“Yeah,” Eleanor said, catching herself in an awkward smile. “You done this before, babe?”

“Oh, once or twice,” he said easily.

Cullen had the tree down in moments. The proprietor helped him wrap it up in twine to keep the branches together and Cullen hoisted it up and onto his shoulder like it was nothing more than a sack of flour. Eleanor handed the saw back over and carried Cullen’s coat over her folded arms.

“Thanks very much,” Cullen said to the woman. “You ready, El?” he asked, trudging through the snow as though the tree were nearly weightless.

“Yep, coming,” she said, following a little behind, her feet finding his tracks in the snow.

* * *

Eleanor had climbed up into the bed of the truck to help Cullen load in the tree, strapping bungee cords across it and through the twine. Cullen looked up at her, dusting needs off of his shoulder before slipping back into his coat.

Doing up the buttons, he asked, “I know that we take it home and put it in the house. But then what?”

“Oh, Cullen,” Eleanor said, leaping out of the bed of the truck and into the soft snow, “I think you’re going to like this part.”

* * *

Discarding his coat once more, Cullen carefully brought the tree into the house and around the corner, shedding needles while Varric held the door for him. He carried it into the living room. Eleanor had run ahead to set up the tree stand and to pass Swiffer off to Dorian, trying to keep the little car from getting under Cullen’s feet as he wrangled the spruce.

“Alright, babe,” Eleanor said, laying on her stomach as she prepared to guide the tree’s trunk into the stand, “steady.” She reached up and as Cullen lowered the tree down, Eleanor directed it evenly into the base, slowly beginning to tighten the screws.

“This seems like an awful lot off effort just to turn an outside thing into an inside thing,” Dorian observed, stroking Swiffer’s little grey head.

“All good things are worth a little effort, Pavus,” Cullen said, not looking away from his task.

Looking up from the floor, Eleanor said, “That’s… that’s very nice, Cul,” and her little smile, even from her awkward position, said that she thought it might be more than just nice. But she returned her gaze to the tree and said, “There,” as she finished tightening the wingnuts. “Let go, but slowly,” and she sat up but kept her hands near the trunk in case the tree decided to tip. But when Cullen released the spruce, it stood straight and tall, and Eleanor carefully scooted it toward the wall leaving just enough room behind for lights to be strung.

‘Okay,” said Varric, coming in from the kitchen, “I’ve got cake slices for everyone, which, I’ve gotta say, Farm Girl, look delicious.”

“I feel as though we should have a bit of wine to celebrate,” Dorian added.

“What are we celebrating?” Eleanor asked, “Christmas isn’t until the day after tomorrow.”

“Whatever… this,” he said, moving his hands up and down outside the space of the tree, “is about.”

“Well, I like wine,” Eleanor allowed, scootching away from the tree to lean up against Cullen’s legs where she still sat on the floor.

“So what’s the plan then, El?” Cullen asked, nudging her gently with a bent leg.

“We eat, we drink, and then we decorate.”

* * *

Her fruit cake wasn’t exactly a fruit cake; what Eleanor had made was more of a giant muffin with a few handfuls of frozen berries saved from the summer thrown into the batter, and she had baked it in a square pan to make it look more like the way she remembered fruit cake. It had stuck a bit coming out and perhaps wasn’t the prettiest, but with a little bit of glaze she whipped up out of powdered sugar and butter, even Eleanor had to admit that it wasn’t half-bad. With her glass of red wine, she even had to admit she was getting into the spirit.

She’d been doing all of this, well, not so much for Cullen as for the fact that he was here. She knew how quickly all of this, all of the quiet, could be over. And Cullen had this innocent look about him when it came to the tree and the snow that helped her to enjoy his enjoyment. But now she thought she could actually really appreciate it. The cake and the wine didn’t hurt, but it was the faces around the table - it was having faces around the table - that really sold her.

Dorian had his glass of wine held carefully in one hand and was reaching down to scratch Swiffer under the chin. Varric and Cullen were mid-conversation, mid-laugh, talking about something called Wicked Grace. Eleanor herself had her glass pressed to her lips, not drinking, just lost in thought as she rolled the cool, smooth surface of the cup back and forth over her mouth as she took it all in. She glanced outside, through the window in the back door, and into the pale pink evening light. Tiny snowflakes had started to fall once again. Nevertheless, Eleanor felt warm.

“I still can’t believe you lost all your clothes, Curly,” Varric laughed, laying a heavy hand down on the table.

Suddenly snapped out her reverie, Eleanor sputtered into her wine and blurted, “You what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy X-Mas in July, folks.
> 
> You may have noticed: this is gonna run over into August. 
> 
> BUT I DIDN'T MISS THE 25TH.


	11. All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holding up the string of lights for Dorian to take again, Cullen watched Eleanor and a sideways smile crept across his face, his attention completely removed from his task.

They had a hell of a time keeping Swiffer from wreaking havoc.

It might have been easier if they hadn’t finished the first bottle of wine and moved on to a second and third; more red for Varric and Dorian, white for Cullen and Eleanor.

She had Cullen and Dorian wrapping the lights around the tree, passing the strand hand over fist to each other since they had the longest reach while she and Varric went around and straightened up the lines they made. Eleanor kept the lights unplugged, not just because it was easier to maneuver that way but because she wanted it to be a but of a surprise when she turned them on for the first time. Swiffer all the while tried to jump at the strand of lights as Cullen would pass it to Dorian and when Dorian would pass it back, the cat leaping into the air with flailing paws before landing hard on the ground and mewling and jumping again.

“That cat is gonna take the whole tree down, Farm Girl,” Varric cautioned, making an adjustment to a branch.

“She is  _ not _ ,” Eleanor insisted, not for Varric’s sake but for Swiffer’s kneeling down and, with the hand that held her wine glass, pointing an accusing finger at the feline, just inches from Swiffer’s nose. “No you will  _ not _ ,” she said again sternly. “Bad cat. No treat.”

Swiffer gave a questioning moop and Eleanor repeated, “No treats for bad kitties. Go to your room,” she gave her finger a little wag, careful not to spill her wine, and pointed across the hall to the bedroom. Swiffer turned her head to look but didn’t move.

Holding up the string of lights for Dorian to take again, Cullen watched Eleanor and a sideways smile crept across his face, his attention completely removed from his task.

“You alright there, Curly?” Varric’s words broke in.

Cullen blinked. “Ah, y-yes. Fine,” and he handed the strand to Dorian.

 

* * *

 

 

It took a few hours and a few more sharp words to Swiffer from Eleanor, but the tree was wrapped and tinselled and ornamented in a sufficiently festive way.

From a little box that she had carefully lain on the couch, Eleanor retrieved a metallic object about the size of her open hand and looked down at it for a moment, a hazy sort of expression washing over her face, her eyes glossy, lips pulled tight. She ran her free hand over her dishevelled hair and then covered her mouth with it.

“What’s this now?” Dorian asked, approaching her as Swiffer wound around his feet.

“The star,” she said quietly, letting both her hands meet the object, “for the, uh, top of the tree,” and she held it up and made a crowning motion. “Dad… made it. I’d forgotten all about it until this morning. It was with the tree stand.”

It was a five-pointed star, crafted out of burnished copper, small notches cut into the fine wires from which it was constructed to make it sparkle. It had already started to take on a greenish hue but if anything it only gave the object a more mystical gleam, an air of antiquity it would not otherwise have had. It was the only one of the old mismatched decorations she had opted to use, the only one that had stood out to her, meant anything. Eleanor rolled her lips and turned it over in her hands once, and then again.

“It’s lovely,” Cullen remarked softly.

“Well, put it on, then,” Dorian ushered her toward the tree with a sweeping motion.

“I don’t think I’m tall enough,” she said, giving a little stretch to test, and while she had her arms extended, Cullen swept behind her and grabbed her just below the hips, lifting her a few feet higher into the air. Eleanor shrieked and flailed briefly, caught off-guard, but started laughing when Cullen said, “Now you are,” and carried her toward the tree.

“You’re awful!” she said, half a scream, half a laugh, kicking gently in his grasp.

“I’m helping,” he insisted, and leaned a little bit forward as Eleanor deposited the star onto the tree, making sure it wasn’t crooked and that it was secure. Carefully, he put her down. Dorian slowly applauded.

“That seemed like so much work,” Pavus commented.

“All good things, Dorian,” Cullen said with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooo hoooooly shiiiiiiit/i'm updating the story agaaaaaaaiiin
> 
> (you have to sing that for it to make sense)
> 
> But yes. I decided I want this to be done. So I'ma write it. That's how this works, yo. I also need something less dark and horrible and depressing in my life, and... I guess this is it? It won't be too much longer. Maybe 20 chapters total. Maybe not even that. I've got 13? 14? already written (some of it is in a notebook and I don't mark chapters when I'm writing on paper). 
> 
> But anyway - this shouldn't slow down actual chapters of OMutB (of which I have MANY MANY written - I don't know what happened there, I went off on a fucking tangent one day), but I am going to focus on this for a hot minute. Enjoy some silly holiday fluff before I force more horrible darkness down your throats.


	12. This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, that’s… rather nice, actually,” Dorian said, the cynicism dying on his lips.
> 
> “Yeah, Farm Girl, good work,” Varric agreed.

“So that’s it?” Varric asked, crossing his arms while Dorian poured another glass of wine.

“Nope,” Eleanor said, Swiffer tucked resignedly under her arm after having tried to climb the spruce. “Now we light it up.” Cradling the cat, Eleanor knelt down and plugged the string of lights into a surge protector.

The tree glittered, shining bright.

“Well, that’s… rather nice, actually,” Dorian said, the cynicism dying on his lips.

“Yeah, Farm Girl, good work,” Varric agreed. 

Cullen simply gave her a squeeze.

Normally, Eleanor would have gone for the most mismatched, obnoxiously colored string of lights and sets of bulbs she could find, but she remembered Cullen’s off-hand preference at the store, mentioning how he had said that he liked the white artificial tree, and while the tree was decidedly blue-green-grey, Eleanor had chosen tiny, soft white lights, little round ones, and burnished silver and blue bulbs. She couldn’t bear to have no colors, but the blue and silver were frosted in such a way that the light they reflected was soft and fuzzy, and gave the impression that it was mixed with a foggy whiteness. The copper star on top was the lone warm color and it seemed to pull the whole thing together, drawing the whole thing toward one point. 

Eleanor felt strangely proud. “Ta-da,” she said softly.

Swiffer pawed her gently, seeming to agree.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, they were snowed in. 

“This is terrible!” Eleanor cried, opening the front door and shivering in a sweater and leggings. “I’ll never get anywhere in this fucking mess!” Swiffer twisted around her feet, as though the cat was thinking about darting outside for a moment, then even the tiny grey ball of fluff darted  back into the house. Eleanor folded her arms and stared out into the feet of white snow that had collected; even from the door she could barely make out where the stairs to the lawn used to be.

“Get anywhere?” she heard Cullen say behind her and she turned her head to see him approach. “Where do you need to go, El?” 

She shrugged. She had an answer, but wasn’t quite sure she wanted to give it to him just yet. The truck was sturdy, and if there was any way to make it off of the farm, the roads… well, they might be clear…

Eleanor touched two fingers to her lips, silently asking Cullen if he had his cigarettes. Withdrawing them from his pocket to pass them to her, he said, “Shut the door, my love, you’ll catch your death.”

She lit a cigarette and passed them back to him, still leaning on the screen door. “No, I will, it’s just…”

Cullen reached out and pulled her in toward him by her shoulders, giving the top of her head a kiss, signalling that whatever it was, it was alright, and to go on.

“Presents, Cullen,” she muttered around the smoke. “I was going to get presents for everyone.”

Releasing her, the commander was silent a moment, before letting out a throaty laugh, lighting a cigarette of his own. “El. You’re… absolutely ridiculous, do you know that?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Eleanor - look.” Cullen put his hands out wide. “You’ve given us… everything. You’ve given us a place to stay. You’ve given us food, shelter, you’ve put your own life on the line. You’ve given me companionship. And - Maker’s breath, you put a tree in your house for us. El, you’ve given us… given me… a home.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and purposefully blew out the smoke. “And you’re worried about presents,” he chuckled. “I will never understand you.” 

Eleanor frowned a bit, but it was an understanding glance, and as she looked at her feet, toes frozen as cold air blew in the door, the edges of her lips slowly rose.

“I will say this, though,” Cullen added, holding the rolled white paper carefully between his index and middle fingers, rubbing his stubble with his ring finger and thumb, “this weather does remind me of Honnleath,” and he gently pushed past Eleanor and out into the weather, resting his cigarette in a divot in the snow on the railing, or what had once been the railing, of the porch. He bent down and scooped up a handful of the soft, white powder, considering it a moment. 

“Homesick?” Eleanor asked quietly.

“Mm,” he answered, looking down. “It’s not so much that, as…” slowly he stood, and then whipped a snowball straight at her chest.

“Cullen!” Eleanor shrieked at the top of her lungs, looking down at her frosty sweater like she’d been shot, and he bent down to pick up more snow. “Cullen Rutherford, don’t you dare!” she hissed, backing up to let the storm door slam shut. Through the glass, she pointed at him fiercely and growled, “Of course you know, this means war.” Into the depths of the house, she called, “Dorian Pavus, lock the back door,” before slamming the front door in Cullen’s face.


	13. Clever Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re going to have,” she said, pausing as she stood, her boots now tightly laced, “one hell of a snowball fight.”

“Pardon, but just what is happening here?” Eleanor heard Dorian ask as he walked toward her from the kitchen. 

“I said lock the goddamn door, Dorian,” Eleanor insisted, dropping to the floor to pull on her boots. 

“Isn’t… the commander still out there?”

“You’re goddamn right he is.”

There was a brief silence.

“Will he die?”

“Not if you don’t lock the back door and he gets in before I get my gloves on,” Eleanor answered, tugging her laces fiercely. 

“Look, I realize there’s probably a reasonable explanation for all of this,” Dorian said, his voice clearly skeptical that there was, indeed, a reasonable explanation for all of this, “but you’ll forgive me if I can’t quite suss it out, yes?” He folded his arms, propped up in the living room doorway to face her. 

“We’re going to have,” she said, pausing as she stood, her boots now tightly laced, “one hell of a snowball fight.”

“Ah,” Dorian. “Well, that sounds like a delightful sort of torture for you both. I’ll go lock the back door, shall I?”

 

* * *

 

 

Eleanor emerged from the house a few minutes later, becoated and with her hat and gloves and scarf as well. Feeling benevolent as she pulled the door closed behind her, she tossed Cullen his jacket - which also made him drop the snowball he was clutching, though she saw the several he had lined up on the railing. as ammunition while she had been inside. Freed of her burden, she dashed down the steps and into the snowy yard. Clouds were gathering overhead; the snow that had fallen overnight was threatening once more. 

Eleanor scooped up a fistfull of snow and gave it a quick squeeze - it was soft and powdery and almost fell apart in her gloved hand, but packing a second layer on top held it together and as Cullen was freeing his own gloves from his pocket, she tossed the snowball at his head, sending a shower of flakes down the back of his neck. Even from as far away as she was, Eleanor could hear him gasp, and it made her smile a narrow, victorious smile. “Eat it,” she muttered under her breath, more than a little pleased with herself.”

Until, she realized, she was entirely outgunned. 

His gloves on his hands, Cullen now retrieved one of the two dozen or more snowballs he had set aside and chucked it solidly at Eleanor’s shoulders.

“Jesus Christ, dude!” she hollered and ran around to the side of the house, pressing her back flat against the siding. In the dim light, it was hard to tell that it was still only half painted - though truthfully, she hadn’t thought about it in months, hadn’t been this close to the outside of her house without a gun in her hand in a very long time. Bending down to scoop up another handful of snow, she wished she had some kind of snow weapon right now.

But wait.

She did, didn’t she?

In fact, she was one big snow weapon.

She heard Cullen’s footsteps crunching toward her and she tossed the snowball haphazardly as a decoy as he rounded the bend. Eleanor watched his eyes follow the snowball, and while he was distracted, she threw up a wall of ice between herself and the commander.

“Eleanor!” he shouted. “Magic is cheating!”

“An arsenal is cheating!” she called back as she dashed to the corner of the house. “And it is not! It’s snow! Look, see!” And some feet from him, and from her - she didn’t want to hurt him, of course, just confuse him in the white on white on white - she stirred up a small blizzard that hid her completely from his sight. “It’s just snow, Cullen!”

She could hear him growl, and she stifled a laugh as she moved more slowly, more quietly now, though the yard, making her escape. 

“It is not just snow, El! It is… something else entirely,” and a snowball landed several feet from her, not at all the precise throw he had made before. 

“Looks like snow to me,” she called, her voice getting lost in the wind as she cleared the back of the house and went around to the other side. “Anyhow,” she said, throwing up another flurry of snow and ice to keep him guessing, “you started it,” and she closed her eyes and found a stillness in the cold, in the white, and zipped effortlessly around to the front of the house where Cullen’s snowball-laden banister was waiting for her.

As was he.

“You think you’re so clever,” he said with a smile, tossing a snowball up and down in his right hand. 


	14. Maybe Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should go inside,” he said, when he could catch his breath, “pretty cold out here.”
> 
> “I can warm you up,” Eleanor offered.

Her mana was spent. If she bent down for real snow, she was done. If she turned to run, she was toast. So she did the only thing she could. 

Eleanor ran full speed ahead and knocked Cullen backward into the powdery white, the snowball catapulting behind him as they both toppled to the ground with a muted thud, snow puffing up all around them as they fell. 

Prone, staring up into the overcast sky as Eleanor lay motionless on top of him, Cullen blinked as he slowly admitted, “I have to say, that is not a maneuver I have come to expect.”

There was a moment of silence, and then both of them cracked up, Cullen reaching his snow-covered arms up to embrace Eleanor, pulling him closer to his chest. 

“We should go inside,” he said, when he could catch his breath, “pretty cold out here.”

“I can warm you up,” Eleanor offered.

“Mm,” Cullen said, cocking an eyebrow with a coy smile. “This must be a different kind of magic, then, from the one you used to try and freeze me.”

“Oh, very different,” she agreed, and rose up a bit before bringing her lips to his.

 

* * *

 

 

“What are they doing out there?” Varric asked from the living room window as the snow began to fall again.

“Ostensibly? Having a snowball fight,” Dorian answered, leaning forward, his hands on the sill.

“That’s… not what that looks like to me,” Varric chuckled.

“I should say not.”

“Well, if it makes ‘em happy.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they were too cold to feel their own lips, let alone each others, Cullen swept Eleanor into his arms and carried her back into the house, his carefully crafted ammunition long forgotten as he kicked the front door shut behind him. 

“So who won?” Varric asked from the armchair in the living room.

Eleanor rubbed her frozen nose, looking up at Cullen. “Maybe both?”

“Well. You didn’t get tackled into a foot and a half of snow,” Cullen objected.

“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” she folded her arms and shifted her weight on her feet. 

“If we could keep it in our respective garments,” Dorian said, coming from the kitchen. “There’s coffee brewing.”

Eleanor made an appeased sound, shrugging off her coat. “I could do with something warm,” she said as she made for the coat rack to shrug off her winter gear, but she felt more than heard Cullen’s words on her ear, low to keep them out of earshot of the others as he suggested, “How about a bath?”


	15. Tracks in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This was a good idea,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard.
> 
> “Sometimes I have them,” he smiled, and reached for his own cup.

They had absconded with Dorian’s coffee and now laid in Eleanor’s clawfoot tub, the steaming hot water warming their frozen fingers and toes. Their hot drinks rested where the soap had been, the bottles and bars having been evicted to the tile floor to make way for a more immediate need. 

Cullen sat opposite her, his arms stretched out along the warm ceramic, fingers gently grasping the sides of the basin as his head leaned back, eyes fixed, half-closed, on some no-place on the ceiling. Eleanor picked up her mug and took a long sip, letting the dark liquid warm her insides while the water warmed her from without. She set the cup down and ran her toes along Cullen’s ribs and he flinched, rolling his eyes but grabbing her foot and giving it a little rub before releasing it back below the surface of the water. 

“This was a good idea,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Sometimes I have them,” he smiled, and reached for his own cup. 

Outside, the snow had begun again to fall. Eleanor let her gaze drift to the window, the curtain pulled just aside. It would have let in light if there were any allow, but the clouds were heavy and pale evening came early, the longest day of the year having only passed two days before. Through the glass, all she could see was grey. Was white.

Everything seemed so quiet. 

And she knew, even here, in a hot bath, with a warm drink, and her skin on the skin of the person she loved, that it was deceit. 

There were no tracks in the snow, none that she had seen while she and Cullen were out. No soldiers, no patrols had come to the door - the poor troops, tromping to and fro in the weather; but then, hadn’t Cullen said this was much like his home? Hadn’t she seen the snow with her own eyes when she’d walked herself in the mountains of Ferelden? - with news, any news at all, and she thought perhaps the snow was a deterrent. Maybe it would be quiet as long as the winter held.

But then, hadn’t Cullen said this was much like his home?

Hadn’t she seen the snow with her own eyes when she’d walked herself in the mountains of Ferelden?

That hadn’t stopped the Fifth Blight.

Or the Fourth.

Or…

She heard Cullen set his mug down heavily on the plastic soap dish and her gaze snapped away from the window and back to him. Eleanor knew as soon as their eyes met that he could tell what she had been thinking.

And that he had been thinking it too.

He shook his head as if to say, No. Not now. Not today, and, drawing up his knees, he bent forward and put his hands on her face. Her hair was tied up, but the rising humidity made little loose hairs curl around her cheeks, and he pushed them away with his thumbs, then pulled her in close to kiss her.

 

* * *

 

 

Eleanor awoke early from a dream.

The contents were lost to her by the time her eyes were open, but something in her chest felt warm, felt good, felt safe. 

Cullen’s arm lay across her, his head resting heavily on her shoulder, and in the hazy morning darkness she smiled, adjusting just enough to kiss his rough curls, askew from sleep. She reached her own arm, beneath his neck, around, and pushed the little locks of hair back into place as best she could with what little light and range of motion she had, and held him there a moment, if only to appreciate the weight, the warmth of him against her, the sound of his breath in the silence, the now-familiar scent of his skin.

From the end of the bed, Eleanor heard a quiet meow.

“You up too, huh?”

A soft purr-oop was the response. 

“Yeah, sounds about right,” she whispered, and gently slid Cullen’s arm away. There was one last thing she wanted to do anyway. 


	16. If You Want It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He narrowed one eye, lifted the eyebrow on the other.
> 
> She reached out and put her hands on his face, imploring him, “My dude. Just go with it. It’s Christmas.”

The attic was dusty and not exactly warm, but armed with her flashlight, Eleanor’s sense of purpose kept her going. She hugged her flannel a little closer and pushed between more boxes.

She could have sworn they were in the box with the tree topper, but no matter how many times she rummaged through the newspaper that was left behind, all she found was… well, newspaper. Eleanor sighed, stirring up dust, and shined the flashlight of her phone on the labels of boxes, most faded almost to incomprehensibility by now. The overhead light was on but it seemed to know that the hour was too early, that the temperature was too low, and the grey haze made the cardboard cubes only shadows, so she searched by the light of her phone instead, clutching it for dear life as though this were some place she could get lost in, even though it was a place she trusted, felt safe.

Unlike some of the dark places she’d been lately.

From the stairs, Swiffer offered a helpful, curious meow.

“I’m looking,” Eleanor turned her head and answered, and when she turned back, she saw it. Her phone light caught on a box that said not “Christmas” or “Xmas” or “decorations” but “holiday junk” in her father’s careful handwriting.

Holiday junk. That was so like him. So like Eleanor herself, in fact.

It wasn’t junk.

Not at all.

Not this.

 

* * *

 

 

She was sitting on the couch, turned to the left and facing away from the door when Cullen saw her, dressed in flannel and jeans and covered in a thin film of dust. There was a cobweb in her dark hair, and a cigarette hung limply from her lips.

“Where have you been?” he asked sleepily, tugging a sweatshirt over his head as he came to sit beside her.

She cleared her throat and wiped below her eyes. “Looking,” she said vaguely, and turned to him.

Her eyes were rimmed red, but Cullen couldn’t help smiling. He licked his thumb and wiped a smudge of dust from the end of her nose. “You’re a wreck.”

“That’s who I am as a person,” she muttered, setting the cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, the smoke curling lazily into the air.

“I humbly beg to differ,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss. “Did you find it?”

“I did,” and she gestured to the mantle.

The nails had always been there, driven in long ago and not worth removing, even when the fireplace had been sealed up. She’d had to double up this year, not used to having so many people in the house, but she’d made it work.

Cullen narrowed his eyes. “They’re… socks? Or boots?”

“Stockings, Cullen. It’s… Actually, I have no idea how to explain this one. We’ll google it later. But there are presents in them,” and she rubbed her eyes one last time, pushing away the tears she’d allowed as she nudged Cullen’s knee with her own.

He narrowed one eye, lifted the eyebrow on the other.

She reached out and put her hands on his face, imploring him, “My dude. Just go with it. It’s Christmas.”

He shook his head, gently moving her hands away, and picked up up what was left of her cigarette to bring it to his lips. “Yes, alright,” and he paused to take a drag, “but first, coffee.”

Slowly, she nodded. “That I can live with.”

 

* * *

 

 

She had had extra stockings from dollar stores and rummage sales. That wasn’t a problem. The problem was finding a glitter pen that hadn’t thoroughly turned to cement. She hadn’t. But with a little rubbing alcohol and some determination, she’d revived one and written everyone’s name on the cuff of their own sock, and filled them with oranges and Pop-Tarts and the last of the jars of the honey that had been hiding in the pantry despite Cullen’s best efforts to root them out every time he was responsible for finding anything therein. And there was one for Swiffer, too.

“It’s just full of…” Dorian squinted at the contents as he pulled it down from the mantle and passed it to Eleanor. “What are they?”

Cullen snatched it away, retrieving a small bit of plastic from within the miniature sock. “Is that… that’s the top bit of the thing that milk goes in. Not the lid, the… wasteful part.”

“It’s a milk ring,” Eleanor said, and tossed one to the cat who deftly snatched it from mid-air and scurred out of the room like she’d been given something precious to hoard.

  
“Well, I’ll be…” Varric said, and took a long swig of beer, leaning against the armchair.

Cullen shook his head and lit a cigarette. “What is it with mages and cats,” he muttered into the flame.

“N’awww, you love her,” Eleanor insisted, and around the cigarette, Cullen couldn’t hide a smile.

“There are two left,” Dorian said, gesturing to the mantle with his glass of wine.

“No, Dorian,” Cullen started to stand, pulling the cigarette from his lips.

Eleanor shook her head. “It’s okay. They’re empty.”

“No, they’re not,” Dorian said, peering in and setting his glass of wine above the fireplace to pull the stockings down, and traced the names on the cuffs with a finger, trying to sound out the unfamiliar letters. “R… ob…” He shook his head. “So much for trying to learn something new.”

“Robin. David,” Eleanor said quietly. “Mom and Dad,” and she did stand, taking the stockings from Dorian. “What do you mean they’re not empty?” She fished feverishly inside.

“There’s paper, or…” Dorian started to say, but Eleanor was already pulling out the contents.

Inside her mother’s was a card. Nothing was written in it, and it was old - probably about twenty-eight years old. The number was a safe guess, as on the front was a picture of a red-headed woman with freckles whose face looked quite severe, a smiling brown-haired man, and a baby with the same brown hair as the man, who was obviously her father, and who looked as displeased about the whole thing as her mother. The inside only said, “Happy Holidays from The Redgroves” in overwrought green script, the once-white cardstock now brown from age.

Inside the other, Eleanor’s father’s stocking, were photographs, Polaroids. They’d begun to fade, but having been left inside the dark cloth, they were still easy to make out. They were pictures of Eleanor and her mother decorating the tree. About one each year, from the time Eleanor was an infant, until she was about six or seven. And then there were no more.

“Son of a bitch,” Eleanor mumbled, an unevenness in her voice.

“El,” Cullen muttered, putting his arm around her.

“I know this is very special for you,” Dorian said gently, bending over to look at the card, “but I really need to know,” he touched the surface of the folded sheet of paper, “what in the name of everything that is good and right are you all wearing?”

Eleanor laughed, a fierce, dry laugh, and she whacked him gently in the chest with the back of her hand, then pressed herself against him, carefully clutching the pictures still. He embraced her, but repeated, “I insist. I must know. And the hair!”

“Dorian, it was the eighties.”

“That must mean something to you,” he looked down at her, smiling warmly.

“Oh, I have a whole special Christmas present to show you later, and it is called Duran Duran,” she said, pulling away to carefully stuff the pictures back in their stockings, having decided that, after all these years, that was where they really belonged.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked as she put the socks back up on the mantle.

“Better than ever,” she smiled. “Full of the spirit.”

“So,” Varric said, finally taking a seat in the chair that he had been leaning against as he drained his drink, “this is Christmas.”

And Eleanor laughed again.

Because it was.

**The End**


End file.
